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With Old Light (Free verse) by Ranger

When laughter meets like dust with wilting light That is when I will remember you When wedding bells no longer sound contrite I will have no need to bid adieu To fond memories of sweetened lovers' rites Lost, where honeybees and heather grew When the vineyards grow a grape to make a potion Of nostalgia and a sorrow for what's lost When I drink to lonely days and sad devotion And every hour is a cobweb flecked with frost On the rusted gateway of a silly notion Then our last words will disperse - with no riposte When the windmills slowly sigh like brooding giants Emptied of their tasks of toil and grain When they rot within yet still stand strong, defiant While hoping not to be recalled in vain And gaze through windows sturdy and reliant A collage of the seasons in their panes When the rivers claim a cargo of lost jewels To ferry them o'er distant plain and crest While the trees can only watch in silent schools And shiver at the spindle wind, undressed I will try to gather up a gleaming pool Then see it slip through fingers tightly pressed When the winter fields are watercolours running Like fraying fabrics failing at the hem When I catch the choke of tractor engines gunning But catch myself before I mimic them Through self-hood's solitude, through craft and cunning Then the skyline shall be sharpened once again So when the early masking mist is sallow, sullen But cannot deign to halt your weary feet When all the tunes of wooden panpipes' songs are spun Echoing across the lowland lee When the dawn burns bright with incense - and clouds of cinnamon Pause for just a moment and remember me Then if we meet - by chance or will - as two So laughter rings out, free of knot or tether When twilight settles we will wander through These woods above the honey fields of heather And maybe one day we will fade - but if we do I promise this; that we will fade together

ecargo 7-Sep-06/5:07 PM
Okay--as promised, I did come back to this. And, no, no--there's enough miserable verse, in every sense, available! I'm still ambivalent about the wealth of metaphors/images--you are right that they are all pastoral, and most are really effective. I love the gentle declines of rusted gates and fraying fabrics--still usable, but inexorably fading. I also like the nostalgia of this, the not-overdone sense of regret and moving forward and fond remembrance. I want this to be more metered--it's almost iambic pentameter, but your stresses fall apart in places (and I'm not saying it has to be straight iambs, which is hard to do without sounding stilted). For example, compare this lovely stanza (pretty much straight iambic pentameter):

When the rivers claim a cargo of lost jewels
To ferry them o'er distant plain and crest
While the trees can only watch in silent schools
And shiver at the spindle wind, undressed
I will try to gather up a gleaming pool
Then see it slip through fingers tightly pressed

With this, which seems more awkward:

When the vineyards grow a grape to make a potion
Of nostalgia and a sorrow for what's lost
When I drink to lonely days and sad devotion
And every hour is a cobweb flecked with frost
On the rusted gateway of a silly notion
Then our last words will disperse - with no riposte.

It's sooo close. I want it to be there.

Okay, my little nits aside, this is nicely done in tone and technique--you've written an olde tymey pastoral poem that doesn't sound horribly dated or terribly derivative, which is quite a feat. You've come a long way, baby. ;)





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